


and i will be alright

by orphan_account



Category: Years & Years (Band)
Genre: Bar Fight, Homophobia, M/M, emre defending olly ?¿
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6687394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>emre gets into a fight at a bar. but, really, he's the one who starts it.</p>
<p>title from "border" by years & years</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i will be alright

**Author's Note:**

> this fic contains usage of the f slur :-//

Emre most certainly does not want to be here.

But it's not really his choice, is it? Olly had insisted on going to a bar after their show to celebrate–and when Emre refused, Olly and Mikey dragged him along anyway.

He just wants to sleep. He will get to do so soon, he reminds himself, because Mikey's just left to get a cab. What a godsend.

He watches absentmindedly as Olly talks, stumbling over slurred words, to the bartender about some movie he's seen recently as he swishes around the leftover liquor in his glass, and the bartender just nods along like she isn't processing what he's saying–or like she doesn't care. _Poor bartender_ , Emre thinks. He feels her pain. He blinks and keeps his eyes closed for a few moments.

He feels his phone buzz in his pocket and jumps slightly, reaching for it and turning it on. Mikey's calling him. He answers.

"I'm outside–what the hell is that noise?" Mikey says, all too fast for Emre's very slightly drunken self. It takes Emre longer than it should for him to process it.

"Okay, okay," Emre replies, "and we're at a bar, what do you think?"

The other line is quiet and Emre realizes too late that Mikey has indeed hung up. He sighs, replaces his phone into his pocket, and looks back up at Olly. His glass is full again. Emre groans.

"And-and then–" Olly's saying as Emre walks toward him. Olly turns to him and flashes a smile that's too wide–Emre can see all of his teeth–as he claps Emre on the back.

"Hi, Emre," Olly hiccups as he turns back to his drink and drops his hand. "Fuck, I'm tired."

Emre nods and grabs Olly's cup by the rim, moving it away from him. "Mikey's got the cab, c'mon, Olls."

Olly reaches for the drink with both hands, holding it close to his chest like a security blanket. Emre rolls his eyes and grabs Olly's left arm, at which Olly switches the cup to his right hand so Emre can grab his left.

The bar is packed, and Olly had, much to Emre's chagrin, picked the far corner of the bar to sit in. Emre guides Olly through the crowds, holding his hand tightly. Olly isn't arguing–he stumbles behind Emre as he's being dragged around.

And suddenly, Olly's hand is gone. Emre turns around, his heart racing. The crowd around him is thick. He's lost Olly. _Fuck_.

There's shouting inside the crowd. Emre shoves his way through to see Olly empty-handed and standing in front of a very angry man–there's glass on the floor and the man's shirt is stained and dripping and Emre begins to connect the dots.

"What?" Olly says, and Emre can't tell if he's trying to threaten the man or if he's genuinely confused.

"I said, watch yourself, _faggot_." The last word comes out spat, venomous, and it makes both Olly and Emre flinch. Olly's not a short person, but in this moment, he looks so very small.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Emre asks, and he steps forward. He sounds much more confident than he feels. He knows very well that this man could kick his ass with one finger.

"Are you fucking faggots deaf?" he replies. "Jesus Christ."

Emre feels Olly tugging on his shirt sleeve, and he hears him saying something but he's not listening. There's something about this man that makes Emre want to punch him, and he clenches and unclenches his right fist.

"Emre, leave it alone, Emre, it's fine, it doesn't matter," Olly drawls almost sleepily, even thought it obviously does matter to him. But Emre is also a bit drunk, and he's persistent even when he's sober, so he doesn't budge an inch.

The man sneers. This sets Emre off. His fist flies right into the man's chin. The man steps back twice before seeming to recover.

Emre hears Olly cry out behind him; he turns around and sees the fear in Olly's eyes, and then turns back around in time to see the man reel and hit him right back, this time in the jaw. Emre staggers, and his head starts to pound. "Fuck," he mutters–he can taste blood. _This is not good_. Emre feels Olly reaching for his hand and he takes it.

"Emre!" It's not Olly's voice.

Mikey breaks through the crowd. Emre has never been happier to see him, and he can't stop the smile on his face. "Emre, where have you–Jesus, what did I just walk into?"

Emre wipes his lip and sees blood on his hand, but he doesn't mind. "Nothing, nothing. I'll tell you later." He casts one glare in the man's direction before Mikey grabs his sleeve and pulls him and Olly, hand in hand, out of the bar.

\---

"Oh, fuck, that _hurts_. God."

Emre is sitting on the edge of his bed in the hotel room the next morning. Olly had insisted on helping Emre out with his 'injury', as he'd called it, and Emre couldn't really say no to that. Olly sits across from him on a chair, a bottle of ointment in hand.

"Sorry, I'm trying to be gentle here." Olly's voice is curt and laced with exhaustion–he's very obviously hungover but trying his best not to show it. "I'm fairly certain this was my fault, right?"

"No, it was not," Emre replies, almost too quickly, and he shifts uncomfortably as Olly begins to smear more ointment on his jaw like it's finger paint. Emre wonders how much of the night Olly really remembers, because he'd passed out as soon as they'd gotten in the cab and Emre was really not certain there was any waking him up. Emre can't force back the smile as he remembers the way he had to drag half-zombie Olly through the hotel lobby.

Olly wipes off his hand on Emre's bed sheets, and Emre makes a noise of protest but doesn't move to attempt to correct the sure stain that the cream will leave on the comforter. Instead, he watches Olly as he sighs, buries his head in his hands, and drags his hands down his face. He lets out a deep breath before he looks up at Emre again, seeming to suddenly realize that he's there. He looks down. Shakes his head. Laughs, but it holds no humor.

Emre begins tentatively, quietly. "Do you remember–"

"Yeah." Olly says it quickly, and the one word makes something sting in Emre's chest. "Yeah. The whole thing. Yep."

Emre shifts. "Look, Olls, I–I know that what–what happened was, like... not the best experience. But it–this–wasn't your fault. At all. Like... there's people out there who are fucking idiots–assholes, the lot of them–and it's not your fault that they exist, you know? They just _do_."

Olly looks down at his crossed hands in his lap, and he purses his lips. Emre clenches his jaw, a stab of pain shooting through it, as he searches Olly thoroughly with darting eyes.

Then, slowly, Emre reaches out, scooting forward so he's basically hanging off the edge of the bed. He lifts Olly's chin up with his thumb and looks into his eyes, and he's shaking although he doesn't really know why.

"I don't ever want you to think that anything is your fault, okay? Especially something so uncontrollable like this. You don't deserve to beat yourself up like this, Olls. It's not worth it. You aren't–you're not to blame here. You're mostly never to blame for the things you think you are." The words tumble out of Emre's mouth, and he doesn't really know what he's saying, but he hopes it makes Olly feel at least a little bit better.

And he knows he's succeeded when he sees the smallest twinkle in Olly's eyes, watches the gentlest close-mouthed smile spread on his face. It's a sad little smile. Emre reaches his hands out to Olly's and they lace their fingers together, sitting in complete and utter comfortable silence.

And, for a moment, Emre can forget the pain in his jaw, because this moment is better than any little over-the-counter ointment Olly could've found.


End file.
